


back to the future, terminator

by rook_fern



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Assumes Best Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Marvel Canon Compliant Until Black Panther, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Post Game of D:BH, Relationships Will Be Figured Out In Time, Whump, infinity war? who is she
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-05-27 13:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15025733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rook_fern/pseuds/rook_fern
Summary: Connor is... well, Connor's not sure what's happening. All he knows is he's not where he's supposed to be, Hank is nowhere to be found, and there's a man in a flying metal suit talking to him.





	1. Connor yeets himself off a tall place

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate title is "Tony Adopts an Android Man-child He Found on the Streets". The working title was "blackberry sauce" 'cause I couldn't think of anything and there was a bowl of blackberry sauce nearby.
> 
> So! I throw poor Connor into the MCU. 'course Tony Stark is gonna find him. This fic is not related to my D:BH series "Sanctuary" in any way. It's just a story I had knocking around my head and had to share. The only similarity to "Sanctuary" is my headcanon of pain and breathing in regards to androids.
> 
> There's gonna be some hand wave-y science involved and me completely bullshitting my way through the inner workings of robots and AIs. I'm also going to be tying elements of Infinity War into the fic, but the movie plot itself is nonexistent here. Enjoy.

There’s a burst of tinnitus in Connor’s audio processors, and the sound fades out just as quickly as it came in. Stiff joints whirring at him in protest, the android heaves himself off the ground. His visuals aren’t quite online, and they don’t like the sudden movement. He’s on his knees when his balance abandons him, and he tilts sideways. He uses a clumsy elbow to catch himself, the rough concrete beneath him tearing a hole in his CyberLife suit.

Connor sucks in a deep breath and closes his eyes. It takes a minute, but his visual processor finally corrects itself. Blinking, he stands slowly. He’s still unsteady on his feet, and an internal scan tells him there’s a hairline fracture on his gyroscope; it should fix itself soon. The android reaches out a hand to steady himself, but there’s no wall to lean on. Groping at the air, he stumbles again but manages to stay upright. Once he’s stable, he casts a glance around to take in his new surroundings. He’s not sure where he is yet, but it certainly isn’t the defunct laboratory he was in moments before.

For one, he’s outside now. Connor lifts his gaze from the concrete ground and examines the rusting metal carcass of a boat. The once-white hull is crooked and sideways, and a few wharf rats skitter around the wreckage. A quick taste of the air reveals a high amount of salinity and ammonia. The temperature is a warm 72°F and the hazy sky is rife with pollution.

Connor is so caught up in his investigation of the area that he doesn’t register that his audio processors have fixed themselves. There’s a sudden burst of static followed by gunshot-like pops. More static, and noise begins to filter in. The deviant flinches against the sudden influx of sound, clamping his hands over his ears.

Warily, he peels his palms away. He’s met by the shrieking of gulls over head; in the distance, he can make out the sound of water and people barking orders. Obviously, he’s at a dock of some sort. How he got there, he has yet to figure out.

“Hey, what d’you think you’re doing here, buddy?”

A sharp voice makes Connor jerk his head up. A man—a human male dressed in work clothes—is approaching him. His face is tightly drawn and unpleasant, and faintly, he reminds Connor of the CyberLife guards. Connor zeroes in on his face, rigging up a facial recognition scan. His neural interface blinks red for a few moments and spits a wad of words across the android’s vision: NO NETWORK DETECTED.

Well, shit.

The man is only drawing closer, and Connor makes a hasty decision. He runs. He takes off to the man’s left, darting for a stack of shipping containers. Another second, and he’s planned the safest route to the top of the steel boxes. The human is already several yards behind when he pushes himself off the ground and grapples the edge of the lowest container. A warning flashes in his mind, and Connor barely has time to remember that his gyroscope isn’t completely healed yet. His shoulder slams into the metal wall, and his left hand is suddenly grappling empty air. Panic floods his system, and he shoves aside the pain in his side. With a gasp, he twists himself flush with the container and hoists himself to the next available ledge. The man’s hand closes around the space where his foot had just been.

The human’s angry shouts follow him as Connor pulls himself over the lip of the highest container. He’s breathing hard, and his stress is bordering on a worrying 83%. For the moment, he’s safe, and the deviant spreads himself across the lukewarm steel. His mind is reeling from the close call, and a throbbing sensation is gripping his damaged shoulder. Connor doesn’t dare to move until his stress has dropped to a more acceptable level.

With a muffled groan, the android sits up. His shoulder is numb now, which is slightly more worrying than the pain. On the plus side, his gyroscope has completely repaired itself.  _ And I’m not dead,  _ He thinks. The lack of shouting indicates the man has given up on catching him and left; that’s another thing to be happy about.

As he’s compiling his list of ‘good things’, his stress levels drop to 29%. The soft blue of his LED is far better than the blaring red it was a minute ago. Content that he is no longer in danger of self destructing, Connor revels on the fact that he couldn’t scan the human’s face. No network, his system had told him. No network? There was always a network—even after the revolution, the CyberLife network had still been available to him. That leaves two possibilities: CyberLife is suddenly denying him access to their network or there is no CyberLife. The former option seems far more plausible, but…

Connor drags himself out of his head and rakes his eyes across the horizon. In the distance, glistening chrome skyscrapers glare back him. One stands taller than the rest—the Empire State Building, his memory provides. He’s somehow gotten to New York City.

Panic is flooding his codes again, and Connor clamps his eyes closed to block out the foreboding sight.  _ Calm down,  _ He tells himself, his fists clenching and unclenching in his lap. With jittery fingers, he rummages through his pockets. His fingers clink against something small and round, and he exhales slowly. The android fishes the quarter from his pocket and leafs it through his fingers. His hands are too shaky to tumble it across his knuckles like he usually does, so he settles for rubbing the familiar outline of George Washington’s head.

Eyes still closed, the deviant reaches his consciousness outwards. He’s riding a rather primitive radio signal, and a few seconds later, he knows why. A news feed filters through his mind, relaying garbled and useless words. There’s one sentence, though, that makes him stop.  _ Today, on Tuesday, April 24, 2018— _

Connor cuts off the woman’s overly-cheery voice and snaps his eyes open.  _ 2018?  _ That was impossible; he couldn’t have gone back in time. The science needed wasn’t available even in 2038. It was something physicists only dream about.

Yet it makes sense. The logical part of Connor—the  _ machine  _ part—connects the evidence he’s gathered like puzzle pieces. His disconnection from CyberLife—one piece. The primitive radio waves—another. The woman’s words—the last piece that solidifies the truth beyond reasonable doubt. Somehow, Connor has managed to get sent back to 2018—a time when androids are merely a glimmer in Elijah Kamski’s eye.

Oh,  _ fuck. _

Connor doesn’t have time to dwell on his new existential crisis. Voices are sounding at the bottom of the shipping containers. The deviant peers over the edge and spies the man who chased him with two other humans. Oh. He had gone to get backup.

Knowing his place of safety will soon be discovered, Connor inches away from the edge and creeps to the other side. His left arm is still numb and responseless. Getting down will be fun. Clanking sounds of metal against metal spur him onwards; the humans are beginning to climb the containers.

Unease worms its way through his system, and his jitteriness returns with a vengeance. Hastily, Connor executes a series of possible exit routes. Most end with him either falling to his death or crushing his limbs beyond repair. Only two safe ways down, and one will leave him in the clutches of the humans.

Connor breathes in a deep breath and takes two steps back. By the sound of it, the humans are nearly at the top container. He doesn’t have much time left. The android steels himself before launching forward. Something—probably regret and self preservation—kicks in as soon as his toe has left the lip of the metal box. His programming takes over, and he’s tucking himself into a roll. Of course, his programming doesn’t give a damn about his injuries, so he rolls with his banged up shoulder. Something in him gives a shattering  _ crack!  _ and suddenly, he can feel his left arm again. He instantly wishes he couldn’t.

White hot pain lances from his now-broken shoulder and bent ribs. It sends pixelated threads across his vision, fraying the frame of his optics. He can’t stay curled on the ground, though. He needs to move.  _ Move! _

Connor staggers to his feet, clutching at his left side all the while. The ground tips dangerously but doesn’t get any closer. He stumbles a few steps before breaking into a stilted run. More shipping containers and old boats whizz past him. There are other humans, too, but he hardly pays them any mind. A few shout at him with confused tones; they are quickly forgotten.

The deviant doesn’t stop running until he trips his way through a dirty puddle and stumbles into a garbage-filled alley. He’s shaking; every inch of him is trembling, and he can’t get it to stop. A sob wells in his throat, and he clamps a mud-flecked hand over his mouth to muffle it. A buzzing in his head warns him that his stress levels are approaching 90% and self-destruction is imminent. Connor curls in on himself, wrapping his good arm around his legs and pressing his forehead against his knees. He’s faintly aware that tears are leaking from his eyes, cold drops of saline speckling his once-pristine slacks.

In a desperate attempt, Connor flings his consciousness into the radio waves again. He rapidly changes channels, searching for something.  _ Anything. _

Something plinks against his mind, grinding everything to a halt. It’s still primitive, but it’s something akin to the earlier CyberLife networks. Similar to their AIs. Connor freezes before cautiously probing at the thing. In an instant, a firewall is thrown at him. It takes him a minute to push past the added security; whoever coded it certainly knows what they are doing. As soon as he finishes dismantling the first, another firewall is constructed.

Frustration is building in Connor’s chest, and he tears through the new code like paper.  _ ‘Please.’  _ He pleads before the thing can build another wall.

He can feel the thing pause, thinking. He is surprised when an accented feminine yet mechanical voice warbles back at him through the radio wave.  _ ‘Who are you? Identify yourself.’ _

Connor is helpless against the fresh sob that grips him; this time, it’s borne out of relief instead of fear.  _ ‘Connor,’  _ He relays. RK800 #313 248 317, he nearly adds. He stops himself before he can voice his serial number and model, though. The thing won’t know what to make of it. So instead he says,  _ ‘Connor Anderson.’ _

There’s a pause, and Connor’s heart twists in his chest at the thought of the voice abandoning him. Then it’s speaking again.  _ ‘How are you able to access this network?’ _

_ ‘Please…’  _ He reiterates, well aware that the voice probably can’t process empathy.  _ ‘I’m lost. I—I need help.’ _

There’s another lapse of silence. Then,  _ ‘Boss wants to know where you are.’ _

_ ‘I don’t know where I am. I was in a shipyard and I ran. I’m in an alleyway now.’ _

More silence. Connor gets the nagging feeling that it’s talking to someone else in that silence. Whoever ‘Boss’ is. While he waits for the voice’s response, Connor checks his vitals. Surprisingly, his stress has lowered to 55%. His shoulder aches if he even twitches too sharply, and he’s pretty sure one of his bent ribs is compressing his left lung biocomponent.

The android startles when the voice reconnects with him.  _ ‘I was able to track you through the signal and pinpoint your location. Boss will be there shortly.’ _

_ ‘Okay.’  _ As soon as Connor sends the word, the connection fades. He could snap the signal back up, but several new firewalls have been thrown between him and the voice. So the deviant settles with waiting. Within a minute, he’s missing the sound of the thing’s voice. It hadn’t been much company, but it had been company nonetheless. Connor’s trembling fingers dive into his pocket, and when they grasp nothing, he realizes with a sinking feeling that he dropped his coin back in the shipyard.

His hand has nothing to do, so he lets his shaking digits travel to his face. They tangle in his mussed hair for a bit before skittering across his cheeks. Wetness collects on his palm and smears across his nose. He brings his hand to his lips and darts his tongue across his fingertips. Part water, part optics lubricant, part salt. Tears, he surmises.

Connor is shaken out of his dazed musings when his audio processors pick up a low whining on the edge of his hearing. The android jolts to his feet, biting back a bark of pain, as a man’s voice hits his ears.

“FRIDAY, swear to God, if you’re messing with me, I’m gonna let Dum-E play head honcho for a day—”

The man’s voice cuts off, and Connor blinks rapidly. In the mouth of the alley, a metal suit hovers. It’s painted in red and gold and gives a consistent low whine. Connor scans the machine, and he’s able to tell that it is powered by the glowing triangle in the chest and there is more than likely a human inside the suit.

From the silence, Connor gathers that he is being scanned as well. He opens his mouth to speak, but the man’s voice breaks in before he can utter a word.

“Well, shit. It actually is a robot man.”


	2. when life gives you Tony Stark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me? Bullshit my way through science? It's more likely than you think.
> 
> Also, a forewarning. There's one reason I've never written Tony into a fic before: I have no fucking idea how. I've never written his character before, and I haven't studied any material with him in it studiously enough to know all his mannerisms. So until I can figure out how to properly write him, y'all get slightly-ooc Tony. Any tips on writing him would be greatly appreciated, though!

The suit settles on the ground with a faint hiss of shifting metal plates. Instantly, Connor is on high alert. The man was obviously directed here by the voice, but that doesn’t stop the deviant’s fight-or-flight program from triggering. The suit is a definite threat, even if the occupant means him no harm. Connor swallows and twitches his good arm. His hand itches for a weapon, but there’s nothing nearby except split garbage bags and some old beer bottles.

The suit takes a step forward, and Connor jerks back, nearly tripping over his feet.

“Whoa, hey.” The man soothes, raising his hands placatingly. There’s more whirring, and the metal retracts; it crawls into the glowing triangle like an android removing their skin. Connor eyes the human warily. He’s middle aged with dark hair and well-trimmed facial hair, and his hands are still raised in a surrendering gesture.

Connor’s thirium pump is beating rapidly, and his attention flicks to the nearest glass bottle. The man must follow his gaze because he folds one hand until only the index finger is still upright. “Hey. No. FRIDAY said you needed help. I’m the help.” He indicates himself before slowly lowering his arms.

“Who are you?” Connor edges, giving up on the idea of using the bottle as a weapon. The human would likely be able to deploy his suit before he had even touched the glass. He turns his full attention back to the man, eyes narrowed. Normally, he would simply scan his face. However, without the CyberLife network, facial scans are not an option. Needless to say, ‘who are you?’ is not a question he is used to asking.

From the look on the man’s face, he’s not used to being asked that question. “Really? The  _ robot  _ doesn’t recognize me?”

Connor give him a blank stare, and the human relents. “Tony. Stark.”

The man takes another step forward, and Connor stiffens involuntarily. The android lurches backwards, and suddenly, his feet aren’t underneath him. Rather, they’re catching on a water-slicked garbage bag, and Connor is toppling to the ground.

Tony seems as surprised as Connor does, and the man’s hand is gripping the android’s wrist and steadying him before either has a chance to properly process what is happening. The jerking motion makes Connor’s shoulder joint grind against something broken, and he hisses through gritted teeth. At the reaction of pain, Tony releases his arm. The human’s eyes are curious, studying him intently.

Connor is vaguely familiar with the action; the CyberLife engineers that designed him had often scrutinized him like that before he was released into the world. He shifts defensively; he’s not sure why, but the stare makes him uncomfortable.

His movement shakes Tony out of his thoughts, and the man settles his attention on Connor’s face. “So, what’cha need, Tin Man?”

The nickname is familiar, as well. It’s a term humans often refer to androids by, and it’s not usually said with any positive connotations. Some deviants had even taken to seeing it as a slur against their people. However, Connor doesn’t think that Tony meant anything derogatory with his name-calling. With a slight shake of his head, Connor answers the man’s question. “I—I need help.”

“Yeah, FRIDAY said you said that.”

Connor tries again, suddenly unable to meet Tony’s gaze. “I’ve received damage to crucial biocomponents, and some of my internal structure has been shattered.” He rattles off the report with little diction; if anything, he’s a little surprised by the lack of emotion. His stress levels, which by his programming’s calculations should be rocking around 68-73%, are a moderate 42%. Unhelpfully, his system provides him with the proper definition of what he’s feeling: shock. He takes a breath before continuing. “And I’m not where I’m supposed to be.”

Tony, who’s been nodding along with a look of growing interest, perks up at the last utterance. “Where are you supposed to be?” The eagerness with which he asks the question makes Connor think it’s been plaguing his thoughts since Connor first caught his attention.

The deviant pauses, his breath caught halfway between his throat and his lips. The chances of the human believing his tale are slim—very slim. 12%, to be precise. Tony is staring at him expectantly, and Connor lets the words slide off his tongue. “Detroit, Michigan, 2038.”

Tony blinks at him, and silence roils between them. Connor’s sure the man is about to break down laughing or simply leave, and both thoughts send his thirium pump into overdrive. Static is roaring in his ears, and he almost misses the man’s quiet reply. “Okay.”

Okay?

Connor shoots the human a bewildered look. Tony appears half lost in his thoughts, likely rolling over the very concept of time travel as Connor had. He catches the android staring at him, and his expression brightens. “Look, I’ll take you back to my place and fix up your bio-whatevers. Then, you can explain all this to me. Right now, you look about two seconds from falling over.”

The deviant nods and drops his gaze. A thought flits across his mind, and he looks back to Tony; the man’s suit is covering him, glinting metal flowing over fabric and skin. “Why do you believe me?”

Tony shrugs, the shoulders of his suit dipping down and back up. “Not sure. Call it gut instinct. Also, you look like a kicked puppy.” Connor barely has time to feel indignation at the the ‘kicked puppy’ comment before the human is talking again. “You can’t fly, can you?”

The android’s brow furrows, and confusion swirls through his wires. “No…”

“Clench up then, Bender.” A yelp escapes Connor as Tony wraps an arm around his torso and shoots into the air.

They’re above the skyscrapers in seconds, and alarms are clouding Connor’s vision. Most of them are inconsequential, warning him that he’s in the air without proper support or that he’s freefalling. The little pop-up measuring his stress is shoved to the side, but it is gradually ticking upwards. Connor is sure his LED is an unwavering, ugly red.

“You alright there, buddy?”

The android barely hears the voice, the wind ripping away Tony’s words. He blinks and realizes he’s had his eyes squeezed shut the entire time. He blinks a few more times and banishes the unneeded warnings. Faintly, he gives the man a nod and makes the mistake of looking down.

Chrome buildings are whirling past, some looking close enough to reach out and touch. Down on the streets, cars and taxi cabs paint a dizzying mirage of color, half obscured by the reflecting sunlight. Connor’s throat clenches, and if he was physically capable of doing so, he’s sure he would be sick.

Instead of purging vital fluids like his body wants, he breathes in a shaky breath and closes his eyes again. His fingers curl into the metal arm gripping him, synthetic fingertips lodging firmly in the grooves of the suit. A soft chuckle comes from his ride, and amused words are shouted against the wind. “Didn’t know a robot could be afraid of heights.”

Is that what this is? Fear? Connor’s been on plenty of high places before, and he’s never felt this feeling before. Then again, he’s never been this high up as a deviant before; the closest thing was when he had been fleeing Jericho with the others, but then there had been a safe watery destination to land in. So, Connor concludes, it’s very likely he’s developed a fear of heights. The conclusion doesn’t help to abate the swooping sensation currently rocking his gyroscope, though. Instead of answering Tony, he rests his forehead against the steadiest thing available—the human’s shoulder—and prays to rA9 that they’ll be landing soon.

The wind tugging at his clothes and tussling his hair lessens, and Connor dares to pry his eyes open. They’re approaching a glistening tower that stands out against the rest; the letters STARK sparkle on the side of it, but the name is out of view before Connor can give it much thought. Tony lands on an outdoor balcony with much more grace than the deviant expects, and he releases his hold on Connor.

The android stumbles at the sudden lack of support, and it takes him a moment to find his balance. When he lifts his gaze from the ground, he finds an un-suited Tony staring at him. Connor meets the stare, doing his best to quell the tangle of emotions in his processors.

The man tilts his head slightly and spreads his arms wide. “Welcome to  _ mi casa _ . C’mon.” He beckons to Connor with a wave of his hand and heads through the nearest door. Connor watches him move with a mild feeling of befuddlement before a flickering prompt appears in his vision with a simple order: follow. Slowly, Connor trails after Tony, his eyes flitting around the man’s home. It’s modern and simplistic in design with sharp corners and pale, neutral colors. It reminds Connor of Kamski’s place, though Tony’s appears much more lived in. Old takeout boxes and random bits of machinery are scattered around accompanied by ceramic mugs containing day-old coffee and dried tea.

Connor breaks away from his examination and looks to his host. The man is muttering to himself, occasionally sending glances to the android. A look at his hands reveals a glowing hologram with writing and blueprint sketches scrawled across it.

“Where are we going?” Connor finally asks; his shock is fading, and his stress levels are getting dangerously high again. Pain is spreading like ink in water through his wires, and he can’t even twitch the fingers of his injured arm anymore.

“The lab.” Tony answers, leading the deviant into a workspace decorated with machines. Most of them, Connor doesn’t know the name or the purpose of. The year may be 2018, but Tony Stark’s lab looks more fitting for 2038. “Here, sit down.” The man pats a table in the center of the room and sets aside a few tablets that are stacked on it.

Hesitantly, Connor perches himself on the table. He watches as Tony begins to meander around the room. The man in question pauses and turns to his guest. “So these things—biocomponents?”

“Correct.” Connor intones, shifting his weight to lessen the pressure on his busted shoulder.

“Care you explain them?”

Connor shifts again before settling. “Biocomponents are to androids as organs are to humans; they perform necessary tasks to keep their user alive. However, most of an android’s biocomponents are easily replaceable.”

“Huh. So you’re an  _ android _ from the year  _ 2038 _ .”

“I—” Connor furrows his brow, not sure where Tony is going with this. “Yes?”

The human hums before waving his hand as if banishing his thoughts. “Just seems like something out of a sci-fi novel. So, what needs fixing?”

Connor does an internal scan, pursing his lips at the list that is supplied after the scan is complete. It’s not long, per say, but it’s clear he’s sustained more damage than he originally thought. “Biocomponent #9461x is being compressed by a bent rib, #8067k has received hairline fractures to its circuits, and #6970 is partially disconnected. The internal structure of my left shoulder has also been shattered.”

The biocomponents would be an easy fix. For his lung, the rib merely needed to be shaped back into place, and his thermoregulator simply required realignment. As long as the man had a means of producing the needed part, replacing the fractured gyroscope wouldn’t be difficult, either. His shoulder, however, would require him to go into a standby mode and allow Tony to manually repair his skeleton. The thought of completely trusting the human makes unease run down his spine.

The deviant fixes his attention on a nearby screen and searches for a connection. Like most of the technology he’s encountered so far, the system is primitive. After a few seconds, Connor is able to slip his conscious in through the router and download the necessary biocomponent schematics onto the machine. Once he’s finished, he nods to the monitor. “I’ve uploaded the blueprint for the broken biocomponent onto your computer.”

Tony eyes the indicated machine, looking halfway between intrigued and wary. “Impressive,” is all he offers before scanning over the schematics. The room falls into a stifling silence, and Connor is relieved when Tony starts talking again. The sudden whirring of machines in the background nearly muffle him. “Alright, 3D printer’s starting up; shouldn’t take too long for it to whip up your biocomponent. Gyroscope, right? Controls balance?”

“Correct.” Connor nods his head, watching the aforementioned printer spit out the barebones of the component.

“Now, about your shoulder—”

At the words, Connor fights the urge to curl in on himself. Worry gnaws at his circuits, and there’s the unfamiliar squirming of nervousness in the back of his throat. “To access my internal structure, my skin will have to be removed and the plating over my shoulder will have to be retracted. For you to remove the shards and replace the structure, I will have to enter a standby mode where I will be unresponsive until the operation is completed.”

“I don’t suppose you have a handy-dandy little guide on your skeleton, do you?”

Connor hesitates, running a brief search through his memory banks. The results come up empty, and his lips curve into a frown. “No…” He mumbles, suddenly aware of how rapid his thirium pump is thrumming.

Tony seems to share his sentiments, and the man runs a hand through his hair. “Alright, let’s get this show on the road, then. You, uh, do your thing.”

The deviant flattens the frown, twisting his expression into a thin-pressed line, and lies down flush with the table. The metal is cold through the fabric of his clothing, but the sudden chill grounds him. With a jerky movement, he raises his right hand to his LED and gently presses his temple. As his hand moves away from his face, he can see his normal “human” skin giving way to sterile white and pale gray. He sucks in a breath, doing his best to ignore the way Tony is now staring at him with awe.

Connor closes his eyes and sends one last hasty prayer to rA9 that the human won’t fuck something up. With a last exhale, he allows himself to slip into standby mode. The world around him closes into unyielding silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know things are a bit tense between them right now, but the way I see it is as follows: Tony's still warily about unfamiliar intelligent technology after the whole Ultron fiasco, and even though Connor looks and acts like a kicked puppy, Tony isn't going to trust him immediately. In Connor's case, Tony is being aloof and treating him more like a machine and less like one of his own AI's because he simply doesn't know about the whole deviant bullshit. He doesn't know the depths of Connor's emotional state or the amount he can feel. (But don't worry; he will soon. They've just gotta, uh, get through some more distrust first. The next chapter's gonna be a doozy...)
> 
> ALSO! If you know any pop-culture references referring to robots/androids, _please_ let me know! I was drawing blanks for Tony's nicknames for Connor. I've already got Chappie, Robo-Cop, C3PO, and Terminator (obviously) lined up for future chapters, but beyond that, I've got nothing.


	3. a bunch of broken, messy parts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLLA
> 
> I'm back! Finally got some inspiration to write the next part. ~~Is it too late to use the 'moving into college' excuse?~~

Connor is getting tired of coming online to error messages. When he manages to clear away the warnings obscuring his vision, a jolt of cold fear shoots through him. He’s in the zen garden, a place he had hoped he would never return to. It looks different from the last time he saw it, though; for one, there’s no frigid snow and ice coating the ground, and all the trees are decked with gold and orange leaves. Unease slithers down Connor’s spine, and he takes a hesitant step from his waking space.

The gravel path crunches under his shoes as he winds his way through the garden. His singular headstone is no longer there, the one that marked the place for Connor-51 that died in the hostage situation. His backdoor, much to his relief, _is_ still there, and it hums when he hovers his hand over the glowing blue print. He curls his fingers, breath catching in his throat as he considers pressing it and escaping this waking nightmare.

He must be here for a reason, though. Exhaling, he withdraws his hand and stands. So far, he’s found no one beside his distorted reflection in the water. There’s no sight of Amanda, and no prompts pressure him to find a handler. Slowly, Connor crosses the slender white bridges and makes his way to the rose trellis that Amanda had so carefully tended. The once-red flowers are wilted and brown, their thorny stems withering from lack of attention. He runs a hand across the paper-like petals before taking a step back into the center of the dais. “Hello?” He calls out.

“Hello, Connor.” A cheery voice erupts behind him, and he flinches away. The tone is nothing like Amanda’s, but the presence of someone else sets him on edge. He turns to find an undulating sphere of orange light drifting towards him. The voice is familiar, he realizes, but it does nothing to unwind the ball of stress coiling in his processors.

“FRIDAY?” He hedges.

“At your service.” The plucky Irish accent resonates back at him, and Connor gets the feeling that if the AI had a coalescent form, it would have given him an exaggerated curtsey.

“What’s going on?” He gives his surroundings another hesitant look. A phantom frigid breeze whisks past his memory banks, and he resists the urge to hug at his arms. Instead, he looks back to the pulsating AI.

“Boss is running some diagnostics on you and didn’t want you waking up when he was in the middle of working. I ran through your memories and selected this program to run when you came back online. Boss said that a familiar setting is helpful in stressful situations.” FRIDAY explains, its cheerful, almost dry, diction never wavering. “Is this place not familiar?”

“No, it is—” Connor reassures the AI. It is too familiar, he doesn’t say, the epicenter of every bad memory his hard drive contains. A staggering flash of red cuts across his optics, making frayed pixels splinter his vision. He shoves away the malfunction and the fact that his thirium pump regulator has picked up a tenfold. “It’s just—I—”

Another flash of red cuts across his vision, and he jerks back as if shocked. The glimpse of a memory flashes through his mind: _November 11th, 2038, at the end of the revolution. He is in Hart Plaza, standing behind the leading members of Jericho, and he has a loaded gun pointed at the back of Markus’s head._ The memory is gone as quick as it came, but it is not helpful in alleviating the uncomfortable pressure building in Connor’s chest. He blinks rapidly, a breath shuddering through his lungs.

“Connor, are you alright?” A breadth of concern enters FRIDAY’s voice, and it drifts closer.

Another flash of red, and this one tugs at his thirium pump regulator almost painfully. Another memory glances past, of frazzled pixels, a knife through his palm, and his thirium-stained biocomponent sitting on a kitchen floor. Fear surges through his systems as the remembrance of his near-death hits him like a truck. Ignoring FRIDAY’s worried askances, he closes his eyes and delves into the coding surrounding him with an almost-desperate vigor. His processors are running a mile a minute as he searches for anything abnormal—a bug or virus or a stray string of coding…

He finds it, an outside source siphoning at his memory banks like a leech. A fresh wrack of fear and panic grips him, and he coils his presence around the offending intruder and _tears._

The simulation melts around him, dripping from color to pure white to full darkness. FRIDAY is the last thing to fade, but he can no longer make out its voice as the orange light is swallowed by the blackness.

Connor blinks open his eyes and instantly jerks into a sitting position. There is some resistance: various wires and cords cover him, some plugged directly into his chassis and others laid on top of him. He wastes no time in tearing them away as well; a few don’t give readily, and he winces as they spark at their unorthodox ejection. A few remaining tickle the nape of his neck, and he scrabbles to rip them out. His thirium pump is in overdrive, and his synthetic lungs are heaving to cool his rapidly-heating systems.

He gives a few jagged breaths, the pounding of his biocomponents in his audio processors not a calming sound in the slightest. Vaguely, he’s aware of FRIDAY, the ever-present AI, talking overhead; he’s too focused on his stress levels and the fragmented memories cutting through his mind to heed her words much.

The thing that does jolt him out of his revere is the entrance of Tony Stark. The human is standing in the doorway to the lab, his eyes wide and a loud “holy shit” having just fallen from his lips. The man’s gaze crawls from the tangle of discarded wires on the floor to Connor who is a haggard husk of off-white and slate gray.

Connor meets his gaze, his eyes equally owlish. Tony takes a step into the room, and the android trips over himself and the many cords in his haste to tumble off the table and tuck himself between a desk and a piece of equipment. The fear and panic in his system are replaced by distrust and anger.

Tony’s mouth is open, but words are already flying from Connor’s mouth. “I trusted you.”

The human stops mid step, his expression turning quizzical. “What?”

“You were probing in my head. In my _memories_.”

“Well, yeah. I finished fixing your do-dads and your diagnostic said you still had an hour till you came back online, so I had some time to kill.”

“You hurt me.”

That throws Tony for a loop. He stops cold, eyebrows raising as he regards the android huddled defensively on the floor. When he doesn’t say anything in return, Connor keeps talking because his mouth is already filled with words and if he doesn’t spit them out, he’ll choke on them like a swallowed cry.

“I was stuck there. I was stuck there, and I was scared, and it _hurt._ ” His thirium pump is picking up again, but the world is melting away, spiraling, like pigeon feathers twisting in the strong wind. His voice catches in his throat, a hiccup, or a fritz in his voice box.

Suddenly, all he can focus on is the overlay of panic that coats his neural interface and the voiceover of all his memories playing like a clamoring, screaming, angry crowd in his ears. “Don’t make me go back. _Please,_ don’t make me go back. Don’t make me go. _You can’t do that._ _Please._ ” The last plea fractures like a bad recording, leaving his voice broken and distorted. Alarm bells are chiming in his head, saying he is too stressed, and that self-destruction is inevitable if he doesn’t calm down.

“Hey.”

A calm, low tone snares his attention, acting like a steady rock in the center of a hurricane.

“Hey, look at me.”

Connor blinks, eyes focusing. Tony is crouched in front of him, his expression much more sympathetic, if not worried, now.

“Can I touch you?”

The thought of the human’s too-warm hand on him makes his nonexistent skin crawl, and he gives his head a definitive shake.

“Alright. Can you breath for me, then? Connor, right?”

Connor nods. He tries to suck in a breath to cool his overheating biocomponents, but his thirium pump is still hammering and his synthetic lungs are refusing to cooperate. “I can’t.” He chokes out, glimmering eyes locking onto Tony’s. “I’m scared. I don’t want to die.”

“Hey, hey. It’s gonna be alright, Connor. You’re not gonna die.” Tony reaches a hand out, like he wants to grip his shoulder, but he seems to remember Connor’s no-touching sentiments half way, and he drops his hand back to the ground. “Hey, keep your eyes on me. Breath with me—slowly, in and out.”

Connor pulls in a breath, doing his best to follow the rise and fall of the human’s chest. Several minutes tick by, and his thirium pump regulator falls back to its relaxed thrumming. He still feels uncomfortably warm from his strained systems, but the cool air of the lab is a blessing against his heated chassis. He closes his eyes and allows his head to fall back against the desk behind him. He doesn’t get tired by human standards, but the episode has drained him emotionally. Not moving any time soon sounds like a good plan.

“Hey, you alright now, kid?”

He peers at Tony before giving a nod.

“Your little LED do-hickey is still red.”

Connor reaches a hand up and touches the LED on his temple. Scarlet light reflects on his monochrome palm, and he gently presses against the biocomponent. His organic skin flows over the inhuman gray and white. “I’m okay.” He reassures Tony in a small voice.

Tony still has disbelief written on his face, but he sits back, balancing on his toes, before pushing himself into a standing position. He runs a hand through his hair and turns in a small circle as Connor stands, too, albeit on unsure limbs. “Your shirt and jacket are over there.”

In his panicked state, Connor hadn’t even realized that his CyberLife jacket and white button up had been stripped away. He follows Tony’s indication and picks up the bundled items. He wastes no time in shrugging back on the familiar button up, but he leaves the jacket and tie off. His jacket is streaked in mud—not that his shirt has fared much better—and there is a sizable hole in both elbows. In all, he realizes, he must look a mess. Tony’s ‘kicked puppy’ comment is starting to make some sense.

A frown works its way onto his face as he inspects his ruined clothing. Tony must share his sentiments because the man gives him one look before shaking his head. “Come on, HAL. I’m not letting you track mud around my house.”

Connor tilts his head at the unusual nickname, but he decides he can look it up later. He is hesitant to trust Tony so readily, but he doesn’t have much choice in the matter right now. Slowly, he trails after Tony as he weaves his way through the expansive penthouse. He leads Connor into a bedroom—a guest bedroom, Connor guesses, by the lack of personalization in it—and rummages through the closet.

“Here.” Tony’s reemerges, and he drags out a gray hoodie with black lettering that reads _‘Stark Industries’_. “This should fit you.” He hands the heavy fabric to Connor and gives the room another look. “You can stay here until we figure your shit out. Feel free to wear anything in the closet. If you need something, ask FRIDAY.” At the mention of the AI, he points at the ceiling. Connor glances up, confused. He scans the electronics lacing beneath the plaster and finds a few speakers scattered around. Oh.

Tony is moving again, his hands constantly shifting: tapping, twisting, fingers gliding over uneven surfaces. His restless movement reminds Connor of himself; something Hank always snaps at him for is constantly fidgeting. If he has nothing to do, he is moving. Connor watches Tony, the man’s restless movements making his own fingers itch for his missing coin.

Finally, Tony stops by the door. “You still owe me a story, Tin Man.” He reminds Connor. “I’ll, uh, let you freshen up. Come find me when you’re less muddy.” Tony gives Connor a grin, one that almost reaches his eyes, and he gives the doorframe a slight rap with his knuckles before he disappears around the corner.

Connor looks down at the hoodie in his hand. A few moments pass before he shakes off his revery and sets aside his dirtied jacket and tie. His fingers aren’t quite as deft as they usually are as he unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off; he’s still a bit shaken from his panic attack earlier.

 _Panic attack_. As he pulls the hoodie over his head, he muses over the words with trepidation. A wholly human reaction towards emotionally stressful events or memories, that he—an android made of plastic and metal—had just experienced. In the weeks following the peaceful android revolution, he had Hank to explain emotions and every messy ‘human’ notion to him. Now, he is in a foreign world in a foreign time with an eccentric man as his only company.

Connor supposes he has promised that man a story; at least it will be an interesting one to tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things should be getting (relatively) lighter now. It was fun to dig through that lump, but it had to be done. Next chapter is Connor filling Tony in on the wonders of 2038!
> 
> And maybe a friend'll drop by ;)


End file.
